


Love or Fear of the Cold

by ag_sasami



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ag_sasami/pseuds/ag_sasami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Charles making toast"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love or Fear of the Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withoutmaps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutmaps/gifts).



Warm sunlight is filtering through the kitchen windows. It belies the chill of winter on the other side of the glass. Erik is seated at the far end of the table, early morning sun on his neck and a mug of steaming coffee between his hands, fingers laced. The children are still asleep upstairs, Charles had assured him before he came down. He is dressed anyway, in a turtleneck—always a turtleneck, Charles had laughed against the skin of his shoulder—and pants worn soft and comfortable from a life of travel. Silent and indulgent, he is watching Charles.

Charles is the loose limbs of sleep in motion. His hair is still in the disarray that comes from being pressed against a cool pillow, and he is wrapped in a robe he favors over clothing in the light of morning spilling over the horizon.

“Breakfast?” He grins over his shoulder at Erik, his own coffee black and cooling on the countertop. And it’s a small thing, mouth soft and tugging in at the corners. The question is hypothetical, but Erik thinks _toast_ all the same. Charles face breaks open like he wants to laugh, mouth stretched into a smile Erik would only call blinding, or perhaps delighted, and his eyes are bright.

He patently avoids the toaster, and the kitchen becomes a scene of sounds and mysteries that resemble toast but are clearly _not_. The abrupt whoosh of a burner being lit, butter melting in a heavy iron skillet. Flaky bread that looks homemade. Erik wonders when he had the time, or if it’s Raven’s doing. Eggs. Charles is doing something over the stove that looks complicated for toast, but breakfast is—for the moment—obscured by the soft curve of his back.

He carries two plates to the table, stands unnecessarily close to Erik to set a plate in front of him. “Eggs in a basket. I hope you don’t mind that it isn’t _really_ toast.” He murmurs, his grin something private and conspiratorial. Erik winds an arm around Charles’ hips and pulls him the rest of the way against his side.

“I’m getting rather accustomed to ending up with more than I asked for.”


End file.
